In-the-world-time needs deliberation and support, and a sofa at the other end. Over the years I have reposed on floors in kitchens, pharmacies, galleries, waiting rooms and niches in hospital hallways; on sofas and benches in a restaurant, a museum, a theatre (for a whole performance!), at a wedding, and for most of Xmas-dinner at the house of friends.
My rarefied and somewhat extravagant emergences (a little ‘i’ is ready to insert itself) precipitate slippages into the land of fuzz: arms can’t be lifted and you sleep in your clothes; speech comes through a mouthful of grit; eyes don’t focus; hands don’t hold; you forget where you live… Worst though: the depth of exhaustion invariably strips away layers of selfhood, of history, of confidence.
I resemble the creaking pendulum of a fallen grandfather clock which after every upward swing drops heavily and doesn’t come up again until, coughing and wheezing, new momentum has been gathered. It takes its sweet old time, and dreams horizons, dotted with digital dials.